


A Rustle of Wings

by misha_anon



Series: A Rustle of Wings [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rutting, Wing Kink, Wing Maintenance, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel knows Dean is angry that he and Sam were left on their own again after their return from the alternate universe in "The French Mistake".  He shows up a few weeks later to take his lumps, but Dean obviously has something else in mind.  Sam makes a sleepy appearance to ask about the noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rustle of Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time Dean and Castiel have been alone since the end of 6x15. Maybe when Castiel displayed his wings to Raphael, it sparked something in Dean?

Castiel knows Dean was dissatisfied with his promise to explain conditions in Heaven later. It's so _messy_ , though, and Dean would never understand what Castiel has had to do to try to ensure victory over Raphael. He feels a wave of intense irritation over the fact that Dean doesn't even seem to realize _why_ that victory is so important.

He had no intention of seeing Dean again any time soon but he finds himself inexplicably drawn back to Bobby's house after a particularly brutal clash with Raphael's forces. With a rustle of wings and fabric, he alights in the shadowed corner of the guest room. It comes as a surprise to find Dean sitting at a small writing desk with a book in hand, reading in the soft lamp light.

Castiel chose this late hour because he thought his former charge would surely be asleep. Although Dean has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't like for Castiel to watch him sleep, making sure he slumbers peacefully is one small good thing in an ocean of bad. Castiel clings to it like a drowning man to flotsam. Dean looks up, startled, and stares.

"Cas?"

"Hello, Dean."

"It's been _weeks_. Why are you -" Dean is on his feet and moving in an instant, his book forgotten on the desk. Castiel braces himself for the punch he knows is coming, knows he deserves. Instead, Dean grabs him by the lapels and pulls him into the light, still staring as though afraid the angel in his grasp will disappear if he blinks. Castiel searches Dean's face for a clue to this unexpected behavior, finding nothing helpful in the scattered freckles and liquid green eyes.

He's still trying to figure it out when Dean's lips descend on his. It's been much too long since they've touched and Castiel hadn't realized how desperately he missed it until this moment. As he reaches up to mold his hand to Dean's jaw, returning the hungry kiss, he feels confusion and relief and a bone-deep ache roll in waves off Dean's soul. It's an odd mix with this growling hot press of lips and thrust of tongue, but he's long since decided that humans are the oddest of God's creatures.

When Dean breaks away just as suddenly, Castiel lunges forward. Scorching breath mixes in the scant space between their lips as eyes lock. There's so much to say, so much that can't be said. When Dean finally speaks between panting breaths, it's Castiel's turn for confusion.

"When Virgil killed you.. him. I thought.. I thought if me and Sam were.. it could've been you. _Real_ you, not _him_ you."

Castiel struggles to follow Dean's fractured thoughts, studying his face again for a clue. All he sees is a worried tightness around Dean's eyes, the same expression he'd worn when he called Castiel to check on a comatose Sam. Finally Castiel gives up, admits, "I don't understand."

Dean's lips catch his again, another play and twist of tongue, wet lips pressed to wet lips. Castiel feels his own blood surge to his groin, feels the lust and need burning in Dean's soul touch his grace in a way that scratches at the base of his skull, wraps around his spine like a fist. This, he understands. Dean is pushing his trench coat off, then his suit jacket.

Castiel feels exposed with layers of clothing to go and already Dean's fingers are working relentlessly at his knotted tie as the kiss slides into impatient moans and licks and sharp bites to one another's lips. He slides his hands down Dean's body to push them under his t-shirt, overwhelmed with the need to touch skin. Dean's apparent need for the same leaves Castiel bare-chested, his shirt and tie joining his coats on the floor.

He wrestles Dean's shirt off, pushes skin to skin. Dean groans and moves backward, pulling Castiel with him by the hips. At the edge of the bed, there's a fumbling struggle with buttons and zippers, heated nips and the rubbing of rough cheeks against one another as skin hunger rules the moment. Frenzied kissing and touching turns to soft sounds and a slow burn when they finally shed the last of their clothing.

It feels good; it's been too long. Body pressed against muscular body, cocks sliding in precome on the other's skin, it's hard for Castiel to remember why they ever stopped this. A bump of chests and Dean lets himself be guided onto the bed. Castiel follows close behind, pressing a line of kisses up Dean's breastbone and throat before he settles half on top of him. He nips at Dean's earlobe, wriggles the tip of his tongue in the soft spot behind, just the way he remembers Dean likes it. He's rewarded with a soft moan, a drag of hands down his sides.

"Let me see your wings, Cas." It's a murmur against Castiel's neck and, really, how is he supposed to think clearly with Dean's delicate nibbles over the point of his pounding pulse, Dean's hands gripping his hips to pull him closer, Dean's thigh pressed hot and sweaty and just so between his legs?

"My.. wings?" Castiel is caught off-guard, only able to parrot the words back. Dean knows they can be manifested without the sound and fury that accompanies their use as a reminder of his angelic power. He's the only human to ever see Castiel preen. Castiel rocks his hips down, lets his cock slide against Dean's.

"I want to touch them." His hands are on Castiel's shoulder blades, stroking with gentle fingertips then scratching lightly at an unseen itch. Castiel trembles, torn. He wants to give in to the request, to make Dean happy. On the other hand, bared wings are a vulnerability, a chink in his armor.

"Dean.." The closing of teeth just above the hollow of his throat draws a whimper from Castiel's throat and he presses closer, painfully hard and arching his hips again and again.

"Please.." Dean shifts Castiel's weight easily. The roll of Dean's hips causes the slick heads of their cocks rub together between their sweaty bodies. Castiel still teeters between yes and no. When Dean whispers "trust me" against his lips ahead of another kiss, Castiel can make no other choice.

"I do." He tries to force himself to relax, hips working in a steady rhythm, building heat in the pit of his stomach to match the anxiety that's already settled there. Dean's hands move down his body, fingers squeezed too tight on his hips to grind as the kissing goes to messy biting and filthy hot moaning then to cheek pressed to cheek panting.

It's a process, a tentative brush of wings against the air to test; Castiel keeps them furled neat and close to his body. He watches Dean as they come fully into view, notes the way glass green eyes widen, the hitch in Dean's breath and the stutter in his hips. The most curious thing is the reaction of Dean's soul; it sings with wonder, quivers with the barest hint of fear, screams with white hot desire.

"Can I.. is it okay if.." As Castiel slowly spreads his wings, Dean's body stills, he reaches but stops just short of touching the dark feathers. Castiel nods and presses a lingering kiss to Dean's throat. Aside from simple maintenance, no one else has ever touched his wings, certainly no _human_. Castiel isn't expecting the brush of Dean's fingers to send a jolt of pleasure coursing down his wing and through his body, straight to the base of his spine. When he gasps and shivers, Dean quickly pulls his hand away.

"No!" Castiel hisses, then, "Again!"

Dean grins and drags his fingers through the ruffled feathers and it's like nothing Castiel has ever felt. He drives his hips down, winces when his hipbone connects with Dean's. He always finds Dean's touch pleasurable, but it's always a layer removed, filtered through his vessel. Dean touching _him_ takes Castiel's breath away, makes his wings spread and jerk of their own volition.

Armed with Castiel's panting, whimpering response to the light tug, Dean twists his fingers into thick feathers and pulls harder. His body is back in the game, hips pumping up to meet Castiel's at a furious pace, crashing together, their dicks rubbing and sliding and pinched between them. Dean's grip is painful, like a time he grabbed Castiel's hair and pulled too hard but it felt so good Castiel couldn't decide whether he liked it or not.

Castiel opens his mouth on a cry when Dean sinks fingers roughly into the feathers of other wing and jerks from the base. Only Dean's quick thinking kiss stops him from waking up the household and the possessive thrust of Dean's tongue into his mouth, pushing Castiel's scream back down his own throat is too much to bear. Dean growls and twists his hands and Castiel feels a feather pull loose, a point of pain that sparks through him like fire.

Dean's fingers work furiously, pull and release and slide and pull, his hips twist up to meet Castiel's and it hurts in ways Castiel never could've imagined he would like. He _does_ like it, though, this inelegant rutting and growling and hissing and moaning and Dean whispering "shh, shh, Cas, gotta be quiet, shhhhh, shit you really like that, shh, shh" against his lips and the way his brain feels like it's sizzling in his head, frantic and needing and driven by instinct to escape and get closer at the same time.

Castiel doesn't realize orgasm is upon him until he feels the thick wet heat smearing between his body and Dean's, his thrusts erratic and brutal, another cry of pleasure, this one stuck in his throat around a shuddering breath. The sense of relief is overwhelming as he slides slickly against Dean, slipping and messy and Dean is panting on his neck and biting imprecisely and whispering "Cas, God, Cas."

Dean's hands move close to the base of Castiel's wings, scrabbling for a grip on his already over-sensitive feathers and yanking obnoxiously as he comes, too, pulse after pulse of hot liquid mixing with Castiel's in the same way their grunts and groans mix in the too hot space between. That last, too hard yank causes Castiel's wings to shiver and flap, trying to get away from the overload of sensation.

They're powerful wings, made for traveling unimaginable distances nearly instantaneously and one beat is all it takes to cause him to flip over backward off the bed, taking out a bedside lamp with a glassy _crash_. Dean is still clinging to him as both men crash to the floor in a surprised heap beside the lamp shards with a resounding **thud**.

Castiel doesn't even notice the pain of falling on his wings as panic grips his stomach. Dean pulls a hand free and clamps it over Castiel's mouth as footsteps ring quickly closer down the hallway. "Shh, it's okay," Dean murmurs, but Castiel thinks he doesn't look like it's okay in the least. On the bright side, they're on the side of the bed _away_ from the door Sam's voice floats through half a second before it opens.

"What the hell, Dean? What's going on? Everything all right?" Sam sounds groggy and Dean winks at Castiel.

"Sorry, Sammy, fell off the bed," Dean slurs as though he's been drinking. Castiel hears the sex graveled tone to the words but apparently Sam doesn't. "S'okay. Go back to bed. I'll be quiet."

Castiel doesn't dare move, hoping his wing doesn't show past the end of the bed. There's a long pause before Sam mutters something about respect for people who keep normal hours and shuts the door to stalk off. Castiel closes his eyes in relief, daring to breathe again and finally registering the discomfort in the awkward position.

"Please get off me, Dean," He whispers politely when Dean removes the hand from his mouth. Dean moves slowly, as though he's reluctant to let the moment go and pulls the blanket off the bed to clean the sticky sweat and come off his belly, then does the same for Castiel.

When Castiel is finally free to sit up, he does so carefully, looking around to make sure he's not going to knock anything else over before he shakes out his wings. He can feel the feathers pushed sideways, itchy and uncomfortable and not right and the powerful shake does little to settle them out. He reaches to begin straightening the worst of it, knowing if he tucks his wings away in this state they'll be a constant source of annoyance until he has time to preen.

"Let me help you with that," Dean offers with a smile, leaning to press a chaste kiss to Castiel's lips. "Least I can do, right?" Castiel thinks it over briefly then nods, steeling himself against the pleasure he now knows the touch will bring and offering his left wing to Dean while he goes back to work on his right.

"No, Cas. Let _me_." Castiel is perplexed until Dean moves behind him. Realizing Dean wants to preen them _for_ him, he pulls his wings in closer to make it easier and drops his hands into his lap.

Dean begins the work of feather straightening at the tip of Castiel's left wing, just the way he's seen the angel do it. Castiel is surprised to find the touch different somehow, still pleasurable, but not _exciting_. He closes his eyes again and concentrates to try to find the difference as Dean slowly pulls the feathers into line. The difference is Dean's soul. Gone is the lust and the want, replaced by a quiet hum of satisfaction and concentration.

It's like the best stolen moment of meditation, bathed in warm sunshine in a quiet forest clearing. This is like nothing Castiel has ever experienced with another angel helping him preen. Dean's warm hands move methodically over the wing from the upper ridge down, familiarly settling because it's the same pattern Castiel uses on himself. Only better. So much better. Warmth surges in the middle of Castiel's chest and he drops his head forward to stretch out his neck, letting out a soft sigh as his body and wings start to relax.

"What's it feel like?" The softly voiced question pulls Castiel back to the focused touch of Dean's fingers moving in a tug straight-fluff-settle series over and over. Castiel swallows, tries to think of a way to explain that a wingless creature could understand. He can't quantify the way Dean's soul caresses his grace even as Dean's sure fingers work gently over his feathers or the way it makes him feel as though everything is right in the world even though he knows it isn't. It's not until the left wing is finished and Dean has started on the right that Castiel decides on an answer.

"Good," he finally murmurs, smiling to himself. "It feels good."  



End file.
